Full Circle
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: The Curious Case of Dean Winchester tag: Dean's ring disappeared after this episode. Here's why.


**Full Circle**  
K Hanna Korossy

_ The ring._

_ The creature howled. Sam friggin' _screamed_._

_ Dean cursed himself for being a girl and yanked the ring off his finger. _

_ Wasn't like it meant anything, right?_

00000_  
_

_Earlier_

"Dude, check it out," Dean said gleefully as he wriggled out from under the car and sprang to his feet. He gave Sam a grin, eyebrows canting up.

Sam gave him one of those dubious looks that suggested he was considering the state of Dean's sanity, or maybe his age. "You…changed the car's oil," he said slowly, the _yeah, and? _at the end unspoken.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Not that." He danced a little jig, reveling in how his knees didn't pop, his joints didn't groan, and his hips could actually move. Even days later, the return to his thirty-one-year-old body still delighted him, after being stuck too long in an achy, creaky, frozen octogenarian frame.

Sam was trying not to smile and failing, and the sight settled Dean's giddiness into something deeper. It was rare these days that either of them were honestly happy, let alone at the same time, and it felt good. And surprisingly wistful.

"Huh?" Dean prompted with renewed brightness, collapsing his knees and bouncing back up again for good measure.

"Yeah, you're Gumby again, man, congratulations." A shadow passed over Sam's face, like he was remembering something, and it stole his smile.

Dean felt his slip at the same time. Moment over. He cleared his throat, suddenly realizing he'd been doing acrobatics in the middle of a motel parking lot in front of God and everybody. Not like either God or the one homeless guy slumped at the corner of the building seemed to care. "So, you find something?"

Sam held up a couple of printouts. "Nothing new on Lucifer or the horsemen. But, uh, I think I found a case."

Dean tilted his head. "Dude, it's the apocalypse. Throw a stone and you'll hit a case."

Sam's eyes got that stubborn glint, the one that a year ago would've meant he was irritated with Dean and ready to do whatever he wanted to despite his brother. These days, Dean knew, it meant he was more than irritated with himself and ready to do whatever it took to make amends for what he'd done. "Yeah, and as soon as we find anything on the horsemen or the Colt, we can do something about that. But in the meantime, I figure at least we can save a few lives instead of just sitting and watching the world burn." He slapped the sheets of paper he held against Dean's chest.

Dean's hand automatically came up to press against the printouts to keep them from falling, but his eyes were on Sam's face. As messed up as Dean himself was, it was Sam he worried about most of all: the rage and guilt the kid was carrying around in him would've driven most to the loony bin, or the business end of a shotgun. The fact that he kept fighting, kept caring… _That's my boy. _And why Dean could forgive him, even to the end of the world and beyond.

He cleared his throat and peeled away the wrinkled papers from his t-shirt. Wiping his greasy hand absently on his jeans, he flipped to the second page, then back again. Then looked up at Sam, head tilting cautiously.

"Wendigo?"

Sam's shoulders came down a little, like he was just realizing he wouldn't have to fight for this one. "Uh, maybe? Geography and cycle fits. And no remains found, just disappearances and vague sightings."

"Wendigo," Dean repeated, this time marveling to himself. "Dude, we haven't hunted a wendigo in, like…" He didn't even know.

Sam snorted softly. "Tell me about it."

An honest-to-God hunt. Not demons or angels or horsemen or the big Hell Cheese himself. Just something that went bump in the night. A long dormant thread of anticipation wound its way through Dean. "Leave in five?" he said hopefully.

Sam smiled at him, and really, Dean had to figure out a way to get him to do that more often. "I'm already packed."

00000

Hiking into a forest was also a blast from the past. Everything they'd been facing off with of late wore humans like the latest fashion, and the hunts usually involved intel, bargaining, and allies more than strategy, weapons, and training. Not to mention how hunting things that looked like people dulled Dean's already faded sense of black and white into even deeper grays. Heading away from human civilization, into trees and quiet and a foe that worked on a primal kill-or-be-killed level, cleared Dean's head in the way he guessed vacations and hobbies did for normal people.

A quiet exhale of his name stopped him a second. Dean turned back to examine the tree Sam had paused by, nodding at the deep parallel scores in the trunk. They were in its territory now. Dean pivoted in place, then pointed to some trampled vegetation and a dark stain lower on another tree nearby. Sam's mouth tightened in acknowledgment, and Dean continued on, slower and more alert now. Wendigos usually hunted at night, but the one in Colorado had grabbed him during the day. Couldn't be too careful.

Sam moved like a predator behind him, stalking silently at his back. Those first few hunts after…_after_—going up against Zachariah, War, the Leshii—Dean had been almost as wary about his backup as he'd been about his prey. But Sam had already saved his bacon a few times, proving himself trustworthy at least on the hunt. He never slunk out at night anymore, listened to Dean's plans even if he didn't agree, and maintained a united front with him in public. What had really gotten to Dean, however, were those haunted, sad, _longing _hazel eyes that met his every time he cast an angry glance at Sam, and…Dean couldn't. He couldn't fight the part of himself that was Sam, too, the person who'd soaked inextricably into every part of his life over the last twenty-seven years. He couldn't reject that much of his heart and soul any more than he'd been able to live without it two and a half years before.

So, yeah, things to kill in the woods, Sammy at his back, body no longer riddled with arthritis and fatigue: it was pretty much Dean's idea of happiness.

Which was, of course, when the decidedly _not _wendigo attacked.

Dean caught a flash of black fur out of the corner of his eye before Sam gave a startled yelp and went down under the massive bulk of the thing. Even as Dean whirled, he cataloged the size, the paws, the pelt on the creature, and knew they'd seriously screwed up.

"Hang on, Sam!" he yelled, half hoping the words would distract the bear from its prey, but no such luck. Didn't matter: by then Dean was unloading his shotgun into the creature, trying hard not to shoot the parts of Sam that were still visible under Yogi.

Buckshot wasn't the best weapon against thick bear pelt, however. The animal only yowled, one huge claw-edged appendage raising to shred Sam to ribbons. Sam was cursing breathlessly underneath, his own shotgun jammed up against the bear's neck to keep its jaws away from his face. "Dean!" he gasped.

Dean's Colt was in his hand before he even registered going for it. He didn't hesitate to unload the full clip into the bear's head in one deafening stream of shots.

The bear didn't die. It didn't even stagger. It _did_ get distracted, muzzle pulling back into a sharp-toothed snarl as it swung around to stare at Dean, paw still raised. But it was a growl of rage, not a death rattle.

And then Dean saw its eyes and, with a cold shiver of fear, got it.

This wasn't a bear, either.

It all fit. The lack of bodies. The cycle. The daytime attack. Why local rangers hadn't been able to kill a simple rogue bear.

And every single weapon Dean had on him wouldn't affect it more than a mosquito bite. The only way to kill a berserker—an ancient shapeshifter—was with silver.

The paw started to slice down.

Dean bared his own teeth and rammed the butt of his shotgun into the elbow of the creature. He had no idea if that was a weak spot on a bear, but a berserker was a former human and had a hybrid anatomy. Maybe Dean couldn't kill the thing, but he could make it think twice about going after them.

The roar the berserker unleashed was deafening. The paw detoured to swipe at Dean, a blow he lurched back to avoid. Sam groaned as the weight on him shifted.

"Sam? Y'all right?" Dean barked as he shifted around just outside the berserker's reach, looking for the next opening to attack. "Sammy?"

"Here." Sam sounded strained and in pain, but there was no gurgle in his words, and no sign of blood so far. Which could be totally misleading; the creature that had him pinned could crush his ribcage—and the delicate organs inside—with one roll of its body. So far, though, it still looked like it just wanted Sam trapped.

Wouldn't stay that way long, though. And the berserker was already losing interest in Dean, turning back to the prey it had in hand.

Crap, why hadn't they brought silver rounds with them, or even a frickin' knife? Once upon a time, they would've come armed for everything. A simple hunt in the woods had just seemed like cake compared to the end of the world and Heaven & Hell, and they'd gotten cocky. _Dean_ had gotten cocky. Let himself enjoy this too much, and now Sam…

The berserker moved, and Sam grunted thickly.

Desperate, Dean went for the one real weapon he had left, the demon-killing knife. It was just another knife against a berserker, but a blade in Dean's hands could still do a lot of damage. He yanked it out and held it up, sneering at the creature before him that was twice his size.

And blinked as silver from his hand reflected sunlight into his eyes.

The ring.

The creature howled. Sam friggin' _screamed_.

Dean's ring. It was silver. But…

The berserker nudged its enormous head at its trapped prey, and Sam shoved feebly back at it.

Dean cursed himself for being a girl and yanked the ring off his finger. Wasn't like it meant anything.

One wild glance around, and he grabbed a rock. Another rock made a good brace. Dean propped the ring vertically against the larger rock, then raised the other rock above it.

The berserker gave him a look. For a second, it almost looked like it _grinned_ at him. Then it turned back to Sam, ready for the killing blow.

Dean felt the ring buckle between his fingers as he swung down, crushed into a flat oval. He didn't waste any time slipping the opening over the tip of his knife.

The huge paw rose again, this time aimed at Sam's face. Sam bleated out Dean's name as he watched death descending.

Dean lunged forward and buried the silver-tipped knife deep in the berserker's back with a two-fisted grip, right over where a human heart still resided.

The creature shrieked with a cry that was only partly animal. It arched, swiping paw diverted from attack to try to reach back and remove the knife impaling it. It rolled back, off Sam, staggering to its feet only to stumble again.

Dean darted around it, just glimpsing Sam's ashen face before he yanked his brother away and curled over him.

The berserker thrashed again, still howling. But it was dying now, its cries lessening, its movements slowing. A silver bullet to the heart, a silver knife would have killed it faster. That poisonous chunk of metal in its body would still do the job, however.

It toppled one final time, jerked, then lay still. And unlike most shapeshifters, thankfully remained ursine instead of reverting to human form. Dean stared at it until he was sure it wasn't getting up again.

A hand jabbed weakly at Dean's gut.

"Oh. Sorry." Dean rolled to the side carefully, then up on hands and knees. "Don't move."

"'M okay." Sam didn't sound like it, his voice thin and hurting. But he wasn't coughing up blood, and color was returning to his cheeks.

"It didn't cut you?" Dean's roaming eyes still couldn't find any blood besides that oozing from a scrape down the side of Sam's face and some skinned knuckles. He felt down ribs, hips, upper legs and lower arms, looking for the breaks he was sure Sam must've suffered.

But he wasn't finding any. When Sam shook his head and rolled onto his side, still trying to catch his breath, Dean let him.

He slumped into the leaves and moss at Sam's side and splayed a hand across the hitching back, suddenly feeling eighty years old again. "Dude," he breathed.

"Pretty much," Sam murmured. He coughed once, wiped his dripping nose, and closed his eyes.

"No, seriously. Dude."

Sam wheezed a laugh. "Yeah." He unfurled an arm long enough to pat Dean's leg, finding it unerringly without opening his eyes, then wrapped it back around what had to be the worst case of bruised ribs ever. "Wazzat a b'rserker?"

"Yup. The cycle was incubation of new victims, not wendigo hibernation." Hence no bodies.

Sam swallowed and nodded, breathing noisily a few more times before he finally pried his eyes open to look at Dean. "What'd you use to kill it?"

Dean glanced down at his naked hand. There was a strip of untanned skin around his ring finger, and when he flexed his hand, it felt weird. "Only silver I had on me," he said quietly.

Sam followed his gaze, and his eyes widened before he made a face. "Sorry, man." He glanced over at the dead berserker. "You could…"

"Yeah, no, I don't think so," Dean said, even though the thought had crossed his mind, too. But, no. What was gone should stay gone. He took a deep breath, one hand giving Sam's back a gentle pat, the other curling into a fist. "Can you walk?"

In answer, Sam just reached for Dean's shoulder to lever himself up.

All the way back to the car, though, Dean's eyes kept straying to the bare hand he had wrapped around Sam's waist.

00000

"We can find you another one."

Dean roused from the auto-pilot he'd drifted into as he drove, blinking over at Sam. "Come again?"

"The ring. I can't recognize you without your jewelry, man." It was said with a quick grin but somehow sounded only half-joking. "We can find you a replacement."

He should've known his brother wouldn't drop it so easily. Dean's eyes automatically slid once more to the hand he had draped over the steering wheel, and he chewed the inside of his mouth as he considered the offer.

Sammy had always been so curious about the ring as a kid, like he had been about everything else at the time. He'd had all kinds of theories: a gift from Dad, a family heirloom from Mom's side, a token of gratitude from a rescued victim, a remembrance from a girl.

Dean would just smirk and let Sam think what he wanted. The truth was far less exciting: he'd bought the ring himself, a totally impulse purchase after he'd caught sight of it in a pawn shop. Dad hadn't been happy; don't wear anything distinctive or recognizable, he'd told Dean sternly. Don't give people something to remember. Like the badass classic car and leather jacket were so forgettable. But Dean had never indulged in anything for himself, and the idea of getting something just because he wanted it had been ridiculously appealing. The only times he'd parted with it since had been during various hospital stays, that brief stint at Folsom…and Hell.

He'd never been much for physical possessions, though, and with the world ending around them, missing a ring just seemed stupid. It had _saved _Sam, which alone was worth anything Dean had. And he'd given it up by choice, just as he'd gotten it. Wasn't like he hadn't lost so much more those past few years, right?

Dean bent his hand around the wheel so he couldn't see his finger anymore. "Naw, I'm good," he answered.

And tried hard yet again to believe it was the truth.

**The End**


End file.
